Now some itches can be ignored. A mosquito bite, perhaps. The urge to reorganise the tackle shed, if you've finally admitted you're never going to use that bent bankstick again.
But the itch to spend an evening chasing a mythical Warwickshire Avon weir-pool barbel? That's the sort of thing that keeps you staring out of the window every ten minutes while convincing yourself the weather forecast has probably changed since you last checked it.
Unfortunately, England had a World Cup semi-final to play. Or, as it turned out, ninety minutes proving that football managers can overthink things even faster than anglers choosing between three perfectly good hooklengths.
I should have known better. Hope has caught out more fishermen than badly tied knots ever have. There was, however, one bright spot. I'd treated myself to a couple of bottles of McEwan's Champion, which, in my entirely unbiased opinion, remains one of the finest beer ever brewed.
Rich, well-being boosting and full of character, it did everything asked of it. Sadly, it couldn't inspire eleven blokes in white shirts to remember the opposition's goal was still at the other end.
If anything, the beer showed more ambition than England did after taking the lead with Anthony Gordon's 55th-minute cracker. Every sip promised excitement, while every backwards pass suggested someone had mistaken a semi-final for a pre-season friendly.
Even the Wife looked as though she wanted someone to have a shot. By the final whistle the bottle was empty, England were out and I was left wondering whether I'd enjoyed the beer more than the football because at least one of them had gone forward all evening.
McEwan's Champion finished strongly. England finished like a bloke arriving at the pub to discover the lights are on, the chairs are upside down and the landlord's already counting the till.
The first hour wasn't bad. England looked lively despite the scrapy argy-bargy nature, and moved the ball well and almost gave the impression they fancied winning the thing.
As every angler knows, that's usually the moment you reach for the landing net before the float's actually gone under. Then someone clearly shouted, "Right lads... that'll do." Not behind the bus. Not near the bus. Properly parked it, switched the engine off, folded the mirrors in and settled down with a flask while Argentina wandered round the outside looking only mildly inconvenienced.
Watching it unfold was like spotting the biggest barbel you've ever seen feeding confidently under your rod tip, only to reel in because you didn't want to disturb it. Football calls it game management. Anglers tend to use slightly stronger language. As if that wasn't cautious enough, Tuchel then decided the answer was to send on three defenders. That's rather like hooking the fish of your dreams before swapping your size 8 hook for a paperclip because it looks less intimidating. You half expected the fourth official to hold up a sign reading, "No more attacking."
By this point England looked less interested in scoring another goal than preserving one they hadn't quite finished scoring in the first place. You half expected them to ask the referee if they could just keep possession until penalties became available.
It reminded me of every helpful soul who's ever appeared behind you on the riverbank. "You won't catch one from there." Curiously, they're normally carrying an empty landing net and wondering why they haven't had a bite since breakfast. Advice, like cheap groundbait, is usually available in generous quantities.
Meanwhile the itch to fish was becoming unbearable. Every sideways pass was another nudge from my conscience saying, "You could be sitting beside that weir pool with a flask, a barbel rod and absolutely no idea what's about to happen." Which, when you think about it, still sounded like a better tactical plan than passing backwards until everyone forgot where the goal was.
The mythical Warwickshire Avon barbel has one enormous advantage over England. It doesn't spend half an hour protecting a lead it hasn't actually got yet. Mind you, if barbel employed football managers they'd probably insist on shoaling in the slack water until dusk before deciding feeding was too risky.
By now I'd mentally packed the car twice. The rods were assembled in my imagination, the bait was prepared in my head and I'd almost convinced myself I'd remembered everything. The only thing actually happening in the living room was another backwards pass and a commentator explaining why it was all very sensible. At least barbel are honest. They either make a fool of you or they don't. They don't spend thirty minutes passing the pellet backwards before disappearing into the reeds while someone tells you it's all part of the plan.
Next time the itch arrives, I'm going fishing. If I blank, I'll still have spent the evening watching flowing water instead of watching a manager turn England into the footballing equivalent of a bivvy with the zip firmly done up. Blanking somehow feels less disappointing when nobody interviews the chub afterwards. Now some places have a habit of getting under your skin. This weir pool is one of them, quietly nagging away until eventually you stop pretending you're going somewhere else and simply give in. Rivers can be remarkably persuasive without saying a word.
For all the years I've wandered this stretch, I've probably fished this swim no more than a handful of times for a Barbel. Strange really, because every visit convinces me there's a proper fish living there. Every visit also convinces the fish that today would be an excellent day to remain somewhere completely different.
The river slipped over the weir with that steady, reassuring murmur that persuades anglers to believe all sorts of unlikely things. It looked every inch a barbel swim. Mind you, so have plenty of others where I've carefully introduced two pounds of bait to a family of very grateful minnows.
There was enough pace, enough depth and enough mystery to keep the imagination busy. If confidence alone caught fish, I'd have needed a bigger landing net years ago. Sadly, rivers insist on introducing reality into the conversation. So, were there any barbel willing to sample my offerings? There was only one way to answer that question, and it certainly wasn't by standing on the bank looking thoughtful. Anglers call that watercraft. Everyone else calls it standing about.
Sadly there are evenings when the angling gods smile upon you... and there are evenings when they point, laugh, and nick your rig. I rocked up at 20:45 to find a couple of anglers cars at the stretch, but the weir was gloriously vacant, as if Neptune himself had reserved it under my name.
The place had changed since my last visit too. A tree had spectacularly folded itself in half, kindly dropping a leafy penthouse over the crease that positively screamed, "Big barbel live here!" Naturally, the first cast into paradise found a snag so committed it was probably paying council tax, and I was soon waving goodbye to lead, hooklink and a small chunk of confidence.
Plan B, a cast just to the right, landed with that beautiful donk every river angler dreams about. Within half an hour the tip gave the unmistakable chub clang, enough to get the pulse up before reality politely tapped me on the shoulder and reminded me I wasn't the guest of honour tonight.Still, there are worse ways to spend an evening than sitting beside a weir with its endless hiss washing the nonsense of the day downstream. Ten minutes from my front door, a cracking little hideaway, and exactly the sort of place built for cheeky smash-and-grab in to dusk sessions.
Mrs Barbel avoided the rendezvous this time, no doubt claiming she'd already washed her hair. Never mind, my dear... I'll be back, and next time you might not be quite so camera shy.
Fishing and football, there's always next time.
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